New Fangs
by Rose of Salt
Summary: Sophie Ivashkov is a sixteen-year-old artist and student at St. Vladimir's Academy. Sophie's story is a coming-of-age fic with fresh eyes exploring morals, technology, relationships and roles in the big and small world. Rated T for high school content.
1. Chapter 1

I felt her fear before I heard her screams.

Her nightmare pulsed into me, shaking me out of my own dream, which had something to do with Orlando Bloom and a roller coaster—

Sound familiar?

These dreams are a semi-frequent occurrence for me.

I'm not a spirit user, in case that's your first thought. It's okay, Mom suspected I would be too. I'm very perceptive. But I was an early bloomer, so by the time I was fourteen and a half any suspicion of me inheriting my dad's element were shattered. I was never much good in fire anyway, and my earth control was dreadful. Even before I specialized, I knew I was an air user.

The dream I just woke up from was met with a reality of a thunderstorm, something that annoys most teenagers who are trying to sleep at 2 A.M. but calms me. The rain pelted the window with its rhythm, thunder rolling its heavy bass drums like the lullaby of a sky god. Storms are my favorite things to paint.

I slid my small feet out in front of me, towards the window, watching the lightning echo on my white legs. I put on slippers, and then snuck downstairs to get my painting supplies.

"Sophie? Is that you?" My dad appeared at the top of the stairs, in pajamas but looking awake.

"Yeah," I called, "I had another dream."

He padded down the stairwell, mindful of the cream carpet. "Auntlis left an hour ago with Rose."

'Auntlis' was a family nickname. Apparently, when I was a baby, I couldn't say 'Aunt Vasilisa' or 'Queen Vasilisa'. So that I wouldn't be confused between formal events and family gatherings, she was Aunty Lissa when she came over and Your Majesty in public. Naturally, I baby-talk botched both, but only the family nickname stuck. Rose was Guardian Hathaway, who would later explain my dream; the memory I'd picked up.

"They were teenagers, I think. You weren't in it."

Dad nodded. When I was younger, I would pretend the dreams were more frequent. I would pretend I was magical, a hero-in-training, with special powers and psychic visions and I was dangerously important. That was when mom thought I would be a spirit user. I'm not, it turns out, the dreams are just a side-effect of having a spirit-user father and frequent visits from a spirit-user family friend. The magic they experiment with left traces all over the house for my developing child brain to pick up on. The dreams don't make me anything special. If I'm going to be special, it will be because of what I do, not what I have. And I do have some pretty nice things.

Mom isn't royal, but dad comes from old money even though he doesn't work. I'm going to be an artist, which is not a real job but with politicking, it gives me flexible hours and will more than cover whatever costs I live on. Nice things are a lot more than money, though. For starters, my dad: All I have to do is say I'm Adrian Ivashkov's daughter, and the reactions tumble like a sea. He's a spirit user, close to the queen, and the grand-nephew of the last queen before Queen Vasilisa, and he had a famous affair with Guardian Hathaway when they were young. He wasn't into politics, but he didn't have to be. His word is surrounded by power.

Then there's Mom. Born Mia Rinaldi, she was the daughter of court janitors. But she didn't come by my dad by some tacky affair in a broom closet, oh no. They met in an underground reform group of Moroi who taught and practiced magical combat. Dad was thrown in with them a lot because of Auntlis and Uncle Christian, or Lord Ozera. Mom was one of the founders and top fighters. And when I say she was a founder, we're talking about a non-royal nobody girl who used water magic to help kill a Strigoi when she was sixteen. If I ever get to be as cool as Mom, I'm going to kick royal ass.

"Don't be too tired for the morning," Dad said. I nodded. In a few hours, I would be boarding the train to take me back to St. Vladimir's Academy, where I would be starting my junior year of high school.


	2. Chapter 2

When I got to the train station, the first classmates I spotted were Sonia and Sergei Orlov, a pair of twins I liked.

"Sophie! You got taller over the summer!" Sonia rushed over and reached up to ruffle my hair. Sonia is a dhampir, so even though she's only a little bit under the average height for humans, next to Moroi she looks like a dwarf. I am much shorter than average Moroi height, so it kind of pleased me that I was taller than Sonia now.

I giggled. "You grew up more than I did." It was true. While I was wearing a simple white dress: sleeveless, a little above knee-length, and fitted to my frame, Sonia was wearing standard novice jeans and easily looked two or three years older than me. Strong features, intense blue eyes, a thick head of long, dark curls, and of course, a full hourglass figure—some girls have all the luck.

Sergei approached, greeting me with a non-protocol bear hug. I happily blushed and gave Sonia a hug too, then the dhampirs saw their teacher and it was time to go.

I wandered through the train, looking for an open compartment. After a few minutes, I saw the bouncing maroon tresses of my friend Brianna Voda in a compartment with a group of royals I knew. Perfect.

"And so anyways," she was saying as I walked in, "then he was like, is your hair real? And I'm thinking, dude, what am I, a—Sophie!" she broke off at the sight of me and leapt over to give me a hug. "Guuurl, how you been?"

"Great," I smiled, feeling a giggle come over me again. I've never figured out how hard Brianna tries to act cool, or what her version of cool is per se. She just kind of explodes. As she pulled me to the seat next to her, I noticed her long legs were adorned with rainbow-striped knee socks and converse. High quality and expensive, but not exactly formal. Brianna was in my year and an energetic fire user. She's tall, even for a Moroi, and has narrow brown eyes and a huge mass of dark red curls. I was once told her natural hair color was blonde.

Looking around the compartment, I also saw Kyle Szelsky, a popular and politically conscious senior. Hanging on his arm was Nicola Badica, a very pretty girl in my year. Next to them was Dave Ozera, a sulky bad-boy also in my year, and a black-haired freshman I could only guess was Dave's younger brother. Self-appointed party queen Hayley Conta was directly across from me, dancing in her seat to the Lady Gaga song playing overhead.

"So hey, did you guys hear about the Dragomir baby?" Nicola's voice was soft, almost raspy in that way that breathy singers sound when they're sick.

I nodded. "Dominick Dragomir, born July 8th. About a month ago."

"So it's legit?" Brianna asked. "I thought the whole the-queen-is-pregnant thing was a hoax."

Dave rolled his eyes. "You think everything's a hoax."

"I do _not_," huffed Brianna indignantly. "_I_ just listen to the conspiracy theories. You can't trust everything at court."

I smiled, ready for a life-in-outer-space lecture later that night. Well, if we were roomies again this year. "Hey, did you get your dorm assignments?" I asked.

"Yeah, but they didn't send names out this year. You just get your room number at the bottom of your schedule," Kyle answered. "I'm in 301," he said, with a meaningful smile to Nicola. She blushed shyly.

"I'm in 215 in the girls' building," she said. "And Guinevere Taurus said she has 215 too."

"Ooh! Ummm," Brianna rummaged around her bag for her schedule, "286," she said. "Sophie, are you in 286?"

"I think," I said, "Lemme check. Yep." I folded my schedule but didn't put it back in my bag.

"So Devin," Kyle addressed the new boy, "Are you excited to be in the upper school this year?"

He nodded. He was definitely Dave's brother, I could see the similarity in his posture and the same tilt of his lips Dave got when he was physically comfortable but waiting for something to happen. Devin was missing the chains and eyeliner, but otherwise they were dressed alike: nice jeans, white button-ups with band T-shirts visible underneath.

"I'm actually really hungry," he said. "Is there a snack cart or something that comes around?"

Dave checked his watch. "Yeah, the lunch cart should be coming in a few minutes."

"Well, I'm tired," Hayley yawned dramatically. "4:30 is way too early to wake up for the whole day."

I agreed, and we pulled out pillows for a nap.


End file.
